 | The Constant Prince |  |
78
ACT III.
SCENE I.
—A HALL IN THE COUNTRY PALACE OF THE KING OF FEZ.Enter MULÉY and the KING.
MULÉY,
aside.
Since all aid is unavailing,
From the lines the king doth draw
Round Fernando: the detailing
Of his sufferings may:—the law
Of true friendships is unfailing.
[Aloud.]
If, my lord, I thee have served,
On land or sea, in any way,—
If my heart hath never swerved
From the allegiance it should pay,
If a boon I have deserved,
Be it thy attention.
KING.
Say.
MULÉY.
Don Fernando.....
KING.
Say no more.
MULÉY.
Wilt thou not hear me then, before
You thus refuse me?
KING.
No, that word
Offends too much.
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And why, my lord?—
KING.
Because, now every chance is o'er
Of doing what thou wouldst require,
If 'tis for him that thou shouldst ask.
MULÉY.
My lord, and dost thou not desire
To know how I discharge the task
Thyself hath given?
KING.
Well, speak; mine ire
Shall ne'er be seen in pity's mask.
MULÉY.
Fernando, whose unhappy fate
Survives his glory, once so great,
Still lives, but in such abject thrall,
That him the wondering world doth call
A miracle of adverse fate,
Feeling the wrath—a better word
Perhaps would be the boundless power—
Of thy imperial crown, my lord,
And victim of his pride—this hour
Doth feel a misery so abhorred,
That he in such a place doth lie
So lonely and so vile, that I
Will not offend your ears to name;
And there, infirm, and poor, and lame,
He asketh alms from passers by;
For as your orders were that he
Should sleep but in a dungeon's murk,
And on your steeds attendant be,
And in the prison quarters work;
And none should give him food, we see
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His pallid cheek so worn and wan;
His tottering limbs, that make him lean
Upon a staff; all changed or gone
His princely air, his royal mien;
Passing the chilly night away
In stony cells, as he begun,
Still firm in his resolve. When play,
At length, the pure beams of the sun,
Who is the father of the day,
His fellow-slaves (how grieved thereat!)
Upon a miserable mat,
Lifting him, place him, worn and weak,
Upon (since I the name must speak)
A dung-heap! for neglect begat
A state so loathsome, none will let
Him near their homes; and so he lies,
A sight no eye can e'er forget.
Shuddering, the gazer from him flies,
Nor feels compassion, nor regret.
Nor word nor aid to him doth send;
One servant, and one faithful friend,
A cavalier, alone remain
To solace him amid his pain,
And both divide, as they attend,
With him their scant supply of food,
Too small for one, to do one good,
For scarcely have the lips possess'd
The morsel, but it seeks the breast,
The mouth not tasting as it should;
And even your people punish these,
Because, by pity moved, they wait
To give their master some slight ease,
To them, no punishment so great,
As that your servants, should they please,
May rudely tear them each from each:
While one doth leave him, to beseech
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To give him solace in his pain
By kindly act, or soothing speech:
Conclude a suffering so severe,
And draw the Prince, so please your Grace,
From his sad state and dungeon drear,
Let horror move you in the place
Of pity's pang, or sorrow's tear.
KING.
'Tis well, Muléy.
Enter PHENIX.
PHENIX.
My lord, if ever
I have, by dutiful endeavour,
Deserved in aught to gain from thee
A boon, I come, your Majesty,
This day to ask of you a favour.
KING.
What could I then deny to thee?
PHENIX.
The Prince Fernando......
KING.
Oh! 'tis well,—
Of this, no further speak to me!
PHENIX.
No human tongue has power to tell
The horror of his state. From thee
It was my only wish to pray......
KING.
Oh! Phenix, cease, be silent, stay,
Who is it that Fernando then
Thus makes an outcast among men?
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If he, for being madly brave,
And obstinate in a wild resolve,
Thus pines away, a lonely slave,
And sees the tardy days revolve—
'Twas he himself the sentence gave,
Not I who doomed him to this woe;
Is it not in his power to go
From out this misery and live?
A word can do it. Let him give
Up Ceuta to my hands, and so
Thus end those rigours and those pains.
Enter SELIM.
SELIM.
My lord, before the palace doors,
Crave audience, two ambassadors,
One from Morocco's neighbouring plains,
And one from Alphonso—he who reigns
O'er Portugal.
PHENIX,
aside.
Still greater pains!
Doubtless he comes to lead the way
To Tarudante.
MULÉY,
aside.
Heavens! from me
Now hope withdraws its cheering ray;
By friendship and by jealousy,
I have lost all things in one day!
Enter ALPHONSO and TARUDANTE from opposite sides.
TARUDANTE.
Most illustrious King of Fez......
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King of Fez so proud and mighty......
TARUDANTE.
May thy glory......
ALPHONSO.
Thy existence......
TARUDANTE.
Never die......
ALPHONSO.
Be ever gloriant......
TARUDANTE,
to PHENIX.
And thou, this sun's serene Aurora......
ALPHONSO.
Thou its setting's hopeful Orient......
TARUDANTE.
Spite of years, may you continue......
ALPHONSO.
Spite of time, may you be reigning......
TARUDANTE.
To be gladdened......
ALPHONSO.
To be honoured......
TARUDANTE.
Tasting pleasures......
ALPHONSO.
Laurels gaining......
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Great enjoyments......
ALPHONSO.
Mighty triumphs......
TARUDANTE.
Little evil......
ALPHONSO.
Good unsparing......
TARUDANTE.
While I speak, say, Christian, why
Thus to speak, art though so daring?
ALPHONSO.
Because whenever I am by,
I speak first, my wish declaring.
TARUDANTE.
To me, as of the Moorish nation,
The foremost place is surely own;
When kindred races meet, to strangers
A preference should ne'er be shown.
ALPHONSO.
In lands where courtesy is shown,
Quite a different rule prevaileth;
In every clime, in every zone,
A guest the foremost place receiveth.
TARUDANTE.
However strong may be this reason,
By it I am not overthrown;
Since as a guest I have come hither,
The foremost place is mine alone.
KING.
Enough of this—let both of ye
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The Portuguese speak first, for he
Should, from his different faith, be treated
With greater honour.
TARUDANTE,
aside.
I am wroth.
ALPHONSO.
Brief will be my simple story:—
Don Alphonso, Portugal's
Famous King, whose deathless glory
Will be told with tongues of bronze,
Spite of death's annihilation,
And of envy: unto thee
Greeting sends and salutation,
And doth ask you, since it seemeth
Don Fernando seeks not freedom,
Since the life that he redeemeth
Should the city of Ceuta cost;
That the fullest value of it
Should be rated at a price
More than avarice could covet
Or the most liberal despise:
Gold and silver he doth proffer
More than two such cities' worth,
For his ransom: and this offer
He doth make in friendly guise,
Which if you refuse, with bolder
Front he'll come to set him free;
For upon the smooth, white shoulder
Yonder of the labouring sea,
Towns arise amid the water
Of a thousand war-ships built,
And he swears with fire and slaughter
Him to free, and thee subdue—
Leaving all these bright plains covered
O'er with crimson blood, so that
What the rising sun discovered
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He will leave behind him lying
Rubies red when he doth set.
TARUDANTE.
Though, as an ambassador,
Mine should not be the replying,
Still in what concerns my King,
Christian, I will dare to venture,
For this insult is to him:
And my lord here will not censure
That his son at such a time
Could not patiently forget him:
So, on his part, you can say
To your King Alphonso, let him
Hither come, but in a space
Shorter than from night till morn,
He will see his veins' warm purple
Soon these verdant hills adorn;
So that even the heavens will think
They must have forgot to form
Any flower except the pink.
ALPHONSO.
If thou wert my equal, Moor,
This dispute were swiftly settled,
And the victory would lie
'Twixt two young men, manly-mettled.
Tell your King, that he come hither,
If renowned he wish to be,
Mine will not delay, believe me.
TARUDANTE.
You almost said that thou wert he,
And if so, I, Tarudante,
Stand prepared to answer thee.
ALPHONSO.
In the field I will await thee.
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There, as thou wilt quickly find,
I shall not too long delay thee!
I am lightning!
ALPHONSO.
I the wind!
TARUDANTE.
I am fury!
ALPHONSO.
I am death!
TARUDANTE.
Do you not tremble but to hear me?
ALPHONSO.
Do you not die, but to come near me?
KING.
My lords, will both your Highnesses—
Now that your wrath has torn asunder
The dark disguise of curtained shade,
Which hid each royal planet under—
Will you remember, 'neath this sky,
No battle-field can be selected
Without my leave: which I deny;
That time be mine, for my projected
Service......
ALPHONSO.
I do not receive
Or hospitality or favour
From one who so has made me grieve;
I seek Fernando, the endeavour
To behold him is the cause
Why, disguised thus, I have ventured
Driven by duty here to Fez,
And before your court I entered
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At this pleasure-house a season,
And I hither came to end
My faint hope, or with more reason
To await a certain pain;
Be it known, my lord, I only
For your answer here remain.
KING.
And that answer, King Alphonso,
Shall be very brief and plain;
If you do not give me Ceuta,
Him, for this, thou shalt not bear.
ALPHONSO.
Since for him I have come hither,
And without him go, prepare
For the war I now declare;
And [To Tarudante]
ambassador, whoe'er
Thou may'st be, amid the fray
We shall soon see one another;
Tremble Africa to-day.
Exit.
TARUDANTE.
Since I cannot have the joy,
Beauteous Phenix, of thy seeing
Me as thy attendant slave,
Let me taste the bliss of being
At thy feet; thy hand present
To him, who his soul doth give thee.
PHENIX.
Let your Highness not augment,
Mighty lord, the suit and honour
You have shown me, which I prize,
Knowing what to me is owing.
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aside.
What does he expect, whose eyes
See this sight and yet surviveth?
KING.
Since your Highness thus in Fez
Unexpectedly arriveth,
You will pardon us the way
We receive you.
TARUDANTE.
Pressing duty
Will not let me here delay
Longer than a passing moment;
And supposing that I came
As ambassador, with powers
My betrothed wife to claim—
You your full consent had given:
Not being so, yet still for this,
May I hope I shall not forfeit
That quick certainty of bliss?
KING.
In everything, my lord, you conquer,
And so, to set that doubt at rest,
And that all needful preparation
For such a war be made, 'tis best
Your mind be altogether freed from
Cares like these; and so return,
That you may be here the sooner
Joined with me the foe to spurn,
Should they dare to try the passage,—
These threatened hosts of Portugal.
TARUDANTE.
That is but of small importance;
As I came here so I shall
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Such a host of armed men,
That these desert plains shall look like
Crowded murmuring cities then;
Soon shall I be here, thy soldier.
KING.
Then with speed let all things be
Ordered for the journey. Phenix,
It is right to Fez with me
Thou shouldst come, to glad that city.
Muléy!
MULÉY.
My gracious lord!
KING.
Prepare
A chosen escort from the army,
As unto thy special care
Phenix I intrust, till safely
Thou dost leave her with her spouse.
Exit.
MULÉY,
aside.
This new ill was all I wanted,
Since stern fate no more allows
My poor succour to Fernando,
Let despair entwine his brows,
Now this glimmering hope hath vanished.
Exeunt.
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SCENE II.
—A STREET IN FEZ.DON JUAN COUTIÑO, BRITO, and other Captives, enter, supporting DON FERNANDO: they place him on a mat upon the ground.
FERNANDO.
Place me here, where I can view,
With gladdened heart and will subdued,
The cloudless light of heaven's pure blue.
O mighty Lord! so great and good,
To thee what boundless thanks are due!
When Job, as I, in anguish lay,
He curses on the day did pray,
But then it was because of sin
Which he had been engendered in;
But I, far different, bless the day
For all the graces God doth cheer
Our hearts through it—for it is clear
That every beauteous roseate hue,
And every beam that gilds the blue,
But living tongues of fire appear
To praise and bless him without end.
BRITO.
Does then your lordship feel so well?
FERNANDO.
Better than I deserve, my friend:
O Lord of Heaven! what tongue can tell
The mercies that to me you send?—
When from a dungeon's darksome gleam
Thou lead'st me forth, thou dost impart
To my chill blood the sun's warm beam.
O Lord! how liberal thou art!—
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Heaven knows, how great a boon we'd deem
The favour of being left with thee;
But the hour warns us, we must be
At work.
FERNANDO.
My sons, adieu!—
SECOND CAPTIVE.
What bitter grief!
THIRD CAPTIVE.
What sight to see!
Exeunt.
FERNANDO.
Will you remain with me, ye two?—
JUAN.
I too must also leave you now.
FERNANDO.
What can I do when thou art gone?—
JUAN.
My lord, I will return anon;
I only go to seek, somehow,
A little food; for since Muléy
From Fez was forced to go away,
On us has fallen a total dearth
Of human help upon the earth;
But I will go without delay
To try and gain it, even although
I make impossible demands;
For all who see me, fear to go
Against the edict, which commands
That even to a drop of water, no
Hand should give, or sell me aught,
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To such a state has fortune brought
Our sad condition: but I see
People advancing hither.
Exit.
FERNANDO.
Oh!
Would my voice could move to pity
Any heart in all this city!—
That the brief moments I may live
To greater suffering I may give!—
Enter the KING, TARUDANTE, PHENIX, and SELIM.
SELIM.
By a street, my lord, you've gone,
Where, perforce, you needs must be,
By the Infante, seen and known.
KING,
to Tarudante.
Thou hast come for this alone,
That my greatness thou mayst see.
TARUDANTE.
Honours still thou showest me.
FERNANDO.
Give a wretch in charity
Some relief, however scant;
Look, a fellow-man am I,
In affliction and in want,
And with very hunger die.
Men, take pity on a man;
Wild beasts pity one another;
Will not man a suffering brother?
BRITO.
This I think is not the plan
Here of asking—try another.
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How?
BRITO.
You should have thus began:—
Let your pity, Moors, be shown
Now unto this poor man's profit,
Let some food to him be thrown;
I ask it by the holiest bone
Of Mahomet, the great Prophet.
KING,
aside.
That his constancy received
Naught of change, though thus bereaved,
Offends, insults me more than all;
Infante! Prince! [Aloud].
BRITO.
The king doth call.
FERNANDO.
On me?—no, Brito, thou'rt deceived,
No Prince, no proud Infante, I,—
But the poor corse of what were they.—
And since almost in earth I lie,
Their names are not my names to-day,
Whate'er they've been in days gone by.
KING.
Since you disown your rank and birth,
Then, as Fernando, answer me.
FERNANDO.
Now must I raise me from the earth,
And slowly creeping unto thee,
Embrace thy feet.
KING.
Thy constancy
Continues still to vex me so;
Is thy obedience humbleness
Or resolution?
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'Tis to show
What great respect a slave doth owe
Unto his lord, nor more nor less;
And since I am thy slave at present,
And in thy presence now appear,
I will e'en venture to address thee,
My lord and King, and pray thee hear:
King I call thee, though thou beest
Of another law, for so august
Is the divinity of monarchs—
So strong and absolute—it must
Ever pitying minds engender,
And make all noble blood display
Pity and wisdom, as its nature.
For even 'mong brutes and beasts of prey
This name, authority so ample
Does in its wondrous way enforce,
That, by a certain law, obedience
Follows in Nature's usual course;
And thus, within his rude republics,
We read the lion-king doth reign,
Who, when his horrid front he wrinkleth,
And crowns him with his royal mane,
Feels pity, for he ne'er abuseth
Whatever prey his wrath hath slain.
So on the sea's salt foam the dolphin,
Who is the king of fish, we're told,
Worketh upon his azure shoulder,
In scales of silver and of gold,
The shape of crowns; and we behold him,
When the wild tempest shrieks with glee,
Bear on his back the sinking seaman,
Lest he should perish in the sea.
The eagle, too, so proud and noble,
He, with his tuft of plumes upcurled,
Diadem-like, by winds, is king
Of all the birds that from this world
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And he, through pity just and brave,
Downwards darts, lest man in drinking,
Should, amid the silver wave,
Drink his death; for o'er the crystal
Oft the snake his poison flings,
Which he scatters by the motion
Of his disturbing beak and wings.
So 'mong plants and precious stones
Is extended and deciphered
This imperial law of thrones.
The pomegranate which o'ershoots,
Crowned with flowers, the topmast branches,
Proof that it is queen of fruits,
Withers all its poisoned berries,
Which, like rubies, glisten through,
Turning them to yellow topaz,
Of a pale and sickly hue.
And the diamond, in whose presence
Even the loadstone turns away
From its beloved north, thus showing
How its true king it doth obey,
Is so noble, that the treason
Of its lord it cannot hide,
And its hardness, which the burin
Finds too flinty to divide,
Of its own accord dissolveth
Into small and shining dust.
If then, among beasts and fishes,
Plants, and stones, and birds, the august
Majesty of King, is pity—
It, my lord, were not unjust
That men's bosoms should possess it—
A different faith does not withdraw
You from this rule; since, to be cruel
Is condemned by every law.
Think not I desire to move thee
By my anguish and my pain,
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This, my voice seeks not to gain;
For I know that I must perish
Of this malady which dims
All my senses, and which, frost-like,
Creepeth o'er my weary limbs;
I know well that I am wounded
By death's hand, for every word
That my feeble breath can utter
Cuts me like a keen-edged sword:
For I know that I am mortal,
Not secure of life one hour,
And 'tis doubtless to exhibit
Life and death's divided power,
That the cradle and the coffin
Are so like each other wrought;
For it is a natural action
When a man receiveth aught,
That his hands he raiseth upward,
Joined together in this way.
But should he express refusal,
By a similar action, may
His intent be known, by simply
Turning them averted down;
So, the world, to prove it seeks us
When we're born, without a frown
In a cradle doth receive us,
Leaving us securely lain
In its open arms: but should it,
Or through fury or disdain,
Wish to drive us forth, it turneth
Back her hands, with the intent,
That the coffin's mute material
Be of that same instrument,
For an upturned open cradle
When reversed, becomes a tomb.
Since we live in such assurance
Of our death—the common doom—
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We our first and last bed see;
What expects he who this heareth?
Who that knows this, what waits he?
It is certain, that it cannot
Be to live; undoubtedly,
Then, 'tis death, and this I ask thee,
That the heavens may thus comply
With my earnest wish of dying
For the faith. But think not, I
Seek this boon through desperation,
Or from a dislike to live;
No, but from the strongest impulse
That I feel, my life to give
In the defence of my religion,
And to lay before God's feet
Life and soul breathed out together:
Thus, although I death entreat,
Will this impulse exculpate me.
If, through pity, thou dost slight
This request, let anger move thee.
Art thou a lion? then 'tis right,
That thou roar and tear in pieces
Him who in thy wrathful mood
Injures, wrongeth, and offends thee.
Art thou an eagle? then you should
Wound with vengeful beak and talons
Him who would dare despoil thy nest.
Art thou a dolphin? then be herald
Of storms to move the seaman's breast,
How that the sea this huge world furrows.
Art thou a kingly tree? then show
Through all your bare and naked branches,
How wildly Time's dark tempests blow—
The ministers who work God's vengeance.
Art thou a diamond? then by
Thy own dust make deadliest poison,
Weary thyself out in wrath: but I,
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Though I greater rigours see,
Though I weep still greater anguish,
Though I go through more misery,
Though I experience more misfortunes,
Though I more hunger must endure,
Though my poor body have no covering
But these few rags; and this impure
Dungeon be still my only dwelling,
All for the faith my soul derides;
For it is the sun that lights me,
For it is the star that guides!
It is the laurel that doth crown me;
No triumph o'er the Church thou'lt have;
O'er me, if you desire it, triumph:
God will my cause defend and save,
Since it is his for which I struggle.
KING.
Can it be, in such a state,
Thou canst boast thus and console thee?
Being thine own, why idly rate
Me, for condoling not a fate,
When thou thyself wilt not condole thee?
Since then you your life resign
By your own deed, and not by mine,
No pity need'st thou hope from me,
Merciful thou to thyself must be
Ere I can feel those pains of thine.
Exit.
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to TARUDANTE.
My lord, your gracious Majesty
Be my protector.
TARUDANTE.
What a sight!
FERNANDO
to PHENIX.
Since beauty owns no lovelier light,
Than when upon her face we see
Enthroned mild mercy's deity,—
Protect me with the king!
PHENIX.
What grief!
FERNANDO.
What! not a look!
PHENIX.
'Tis past belief!
FERNANDO.
'Tis well; those beauteous eyes I know
Were never made to look at woe.
PHENIX.
My very fear forbids relief!
FERNANDO.
Since thou wilt not turn thine eye
Towards me, and desire to fly;
Lady, it is well to know,
Though thy beauty prides thee so,
That thou canst do less than I,
And perhaps I more than thou.
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Horror comes, I know not how,
Wounding me, when thou dost speak.
Leave me man; what dost thou seek?
More I cannot suffer now!
Exit.
Enter DON JUAN with some bread.
This bread, I bring thee to assuage
Thy patient craving after food,
Have the cruel Moors pursued,—
Striking me with blows through rage.
FERNANDO.
It is Adam's heritage.
JUAN.
Take it.
FERNANDO.
Ah! my faithful friend,
'Tis too late; for now doth end
All my woes in death.
JUAN.
O heaven!
Now be thy consolation given.
FERNANDO.
But since deathwards all men doth wend,
What is there that ends not so?
In the world's confused abyss,
Sickness ever leads to this,
When death strikes the fatal blow.
Man, be mindful, here below,
Of thy soul's sublimer part;
Think upon eternity,
Wait not till infirmity
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For infirmity itself thou art.
On the hard earth, year by year,
Man is treading, hopeful, brave,
But each step is o'er his grave,
Daily drawing near and near.
Mournful sentence—law severe—
But which cannot be mistaken,
Every step (what fears awaken!)
Is to that dark goal commissioned,
So that God is not sufficient
To prevent that step being taken:
Friends, my end approaches nigher;
Bear me from this public place
In your arms.
JUAN.
Life's last embrace
For me, is this.
FERNANDO.
What I desire,
Noble friend, is, when I expire,
That these garments you unbind:
In my dungeon, you will find
My religious cloak, which I
Bore so oft in days gone by.
Uncovered thus and unconfined
Bury me—his wrath passed by—
If from the fierce King you procure
Leave to give me sepulture.
Mark the spot, for although I
Here to-day a captive die,
Ransomed yet, I hope to share
The blessed altar's sacred prayer,
For, my God! since I have given
So many churches unto Heaven,
One to me 'twill surely spare.
They bear him out in their arms.
“The reply of Fernando,” says Sismondi, “is wholly in the Oriental style. It is not by arguments nor, indeed, by sentiments of compassion, that he attempts to touch his master; but by that exuberance of poetical images which was regarded as real eloquence by the Arabians, and which was, perhaps, more likely to touch a Moorish king than a discourse more appropriate to Nature and circumstances.”
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SCENE III.
—THE SEA-COAST.Enter DON ALPHONSO and soldiers with arquebuses.
ALPHONSO.
Leave to the fickle field of green—
The azure wave—this arrogant machine
Of ships, whose vastness scaring heaven's beholders,
The sea sustains upon its snow-white shoulders,
And upon this sandy plain
Let the pregnant mountains of the main
Bring forth the troops, their fire-arms brightly gleaming,
Each man-filled boat the Grecian structure seeming.
Enter DON ENRIQUE.
ENRIQUE.
My Lord, you did not wish upon the strand
Of Fez, that we our armament should land,
And this place, for debarkation,
You did choose—unhappy situation!—
For on one side, by the coast
Marching, comes a numerous martial host
Whose speed the wind outvies;
Whose vastness makes the hills increase in size;
And with a similar number, Tarudante
Leadeth his wife away (the fortunate Infante)
From Fez unto Morocco,—
But learn the tidings better from the echo.
ALPHONSO.
Enrique, 'tis for this that I advance
To meet them at this pass; 'tis not through chance
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And this the reason is, of my selection:—
If I, at Fez had landed on the coast,
I must have fought with their united host,
But being divided thus in two,
With smaller power I can each force subdue;
And so, before they can prepare,
Sound to arms.
ENRIQUE.
My Lord, reflect—take care;
Unseasonable seems this movement.
ALPHONSO.
Oh! mine ire
No tardy-footed counsel doth desire,
Nor doth my vengeance know the way
Even to brook a moment's brief delay;
Let Africa beware,
In my strong hands the scourge of death I bear.
ENRIQUE.
Already hath the night begun,
And see, the shining chariot of the sun
Has ceased the clouds of evening to illume.
ALPHONSO.
Well, let us combat in the gloom;
The faith that animates my soul to-day,
Nor any power, nor time, can take away.
Fernando, if the martyrdom you suffer,
Since it is his own cause, to God you offer,
Certain is the sacred victory,
Mine will be the honour, thine the glory.
ENRIQUE.
Thy daring pride doth lead thee much too far.
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within.
Great Alphonso! to the attack! war! war!
A trumpet sounds.
ALPHONSO.
Hear you not these mingled voices breaking
The silence, and the swift, sad night-winds waking?
ENRIQUE.
Yes: and with them too do I hear the rattle
Of arms, and trumpets charging to the battle.
ALPHONSO.
Forward, Enrique! doubts had not delayed you
If you relied on Heaven.
Enter FERNANDO, dressed in his capitulary cloak, and with a torch in his hand.
FERNANDO.
Yes! it will aid you;
For the Heavens regarding
Your faith and zeal, your piety rewarding,
Will this day defend you,
And to free me from my slavery doth send you;
For in return (a rare example)
Of many temples, God doth offer me one temple,
And with this flame-bespangled
Torch, from the streaming orient disentangled,
Before the army gliding,
Thus shall I go, the light your footsteps guiding,
That thy triumphs may be thus propitious,
And equal, great Alphonso, to thy wishes.
To Fez advance, not there new laurels getting,
But that thy morning rise upon my setting.
Exit.
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Alphonso, I still doubt my eyes deceive.
ALPHONSO.
And I do not. I bow and I believe,
And if it be for God's divinest glory,
No more cry “war!” the cry be “victory!”
Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
—BEFORE THE WALLS OF FEZ.Enter the KING and SELIM; on the walls appear DON JUAN and a Captive; before them is a coffin; in it appears to be the body of the INFANTE.
JUAN.
Now rejoice! rejoice! barbarian,
That thy tyranny hath ta'en
The noblest life of the world!
KING.
Who are you?
JUAN.
A man, who though he should be slain
For it, shall not leave Fernando,
And though madness choke my breath,
Like the faithful dog, I shall not
Leave my master even in death.
KING.
Christians, this is an example
Which, to future times may figure
What was due unto my justice,
For it cannot be called rigour—
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Wrongs to royal persons done.
Now let Alphonso come and free him,
With arrogant presumption,
From his chains; for though hath faded
The high hopes that once I had
Of Ceuta, he will lose the haughty
Hope of freeing him; I'm glad,
In this narrow cell to see him,
For though dead, he shall not be
Free of my renowned resentment:
Thus exposed, in mockery
Let him lie for all beholders.
JUAN.
King, thy punishment is near,
For upon the fields and waters
I can plainly see, from here,
Coming swift my Christian standards.
KING.
Let us mount upon the wall
To investigate these tidings.
They go in.
JUAN.
Down the drooping banners fall,
And the sullen drums are muffled,
Fires and lights are out, and all,
All things wear the signs of mourning.
The drums beat a mournful march; enter the Ghost of DON FERNANDO bearing a lighted torch, and followed by DON ALPHONSO and DON ENRIQUE at the head of their troops, with whom as prisoners come TARUDANTE, PHENIX, and MULÉY.
FERNANDO.
Through the darkness of the night,
By wild paths that no man knoweth,
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Faintly through the grey clouds gloweth.
Thus, victorious, great Alphonso,
I, to Fez have led thy feet.
This is Fez: behold the ramparts.
For my speedy ransom treat.
Disappears.
ALPHONSO.
Ho, there! on the walls, to speak
To the King I crave an audience.
Enter the KING and SELIM on the walls.
KING.
Valiant youth, what dost thou seek?
ALPHONSO.
That you yield me the Infante—
The Grand Master Don Fernando;
Phenix here and Tarudante,
Prisoners now, will be his ransom:
Thus we shall depart in peace.
Choose now which of these thou pleasest,
Thy daughter's death or his release.
KING
to SELIM.
What can I now do, friend Selim,
In a perplexity so strange?
Fernando's dead, and see, my daughter
Is in their power—how great a change
In the condition of our fortunes,
Since I have fallen to such a state!
PHENIX.
How is this, my lord, that seeing
My person hemmed by ills so great,
My life in this extremest peril,
My honour in this dangerous strait;
Can you hesitate to answer?
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Even for a minute or an instant
The words of liberty to say?
In thy hand my life is lying,
And you consent (oh! bitter pain!)
That mine (oh! grief beyond expression!)
Should thus unjustly wear this chain!
On thy voice my life is hanging,
And (cruelty beyond compare!)
Thou permittest mine to trouble
Vainly thus the realms of air!
With thine eyes, you see my bosom
Thus the aim of pointed spears,
And you consent, that mine should sadly
Weep those useless tender tears!
Once my King, but now a wild beast,
Once my sire—an adder now—
Once my judge, but now my headsman,
Nor king, nor judge, nor father thou!
KING.
Phenix, if I have not given thee
Answer sooner—as 'tis known
Unto Heaven—'tis not to deny thee
Life, when thine would cost mine own,
And since now, both one and the other
Can no longer here delay,
Know, Alphonso, that when Phenix
Yester evening took her way
Out of Fez, two glorious planets
Down in two seas—one dark and dun—
The sea of death; one bright with sea-foam,—
Sank the Infante and the Sun.
Within this poor and narrow coffin
His lifeless body lieth lone;
Give death unto the beauteous Phenix,
And let my blood for his atone!
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Ah! woe is me! from this sad moment
For me, now every hope is o'er!
KING.
No remedy for me remaineth
By which to live one instant more!
ENRIQUE.
God of mercy! what sad tidings!
Ah! ye Heavens, we have delayed
Far too long to give him freedom!
ALPHONSO.
Do not say so, if the shade
Of Fernando said, thus darkly—
Free me from this slavery,—
It was for his corse he said it,
That, for many temples, he
Might obtain one for his body,
And for this be ransoméd;
King of Fez, do not imagine
That Fernando, even dead,
Is not worth this living beauty;
For him, though thus dead he lieth,
I exchange her: then, I pray,
Send us snow for these bright crystals—
January for this May,—
Roses dead for living diamonds,
And a hapless corse in fine
For a goddess-seeming image.
KING.
How! what mean these words of thine,
Brave, invincible Alphonso?
ALPHONSO.
Him, permit these slaves to lower.
PHENIX.
Thus I am a corse's ransom!
Now Heaven's prophecy is o'er.
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Carefully let down the coffin
By the wall, with all things meet.
I myself, to make delivery,
Go to throw me at thy feet.
Exit.
The coffin is let down by cords from the walls.
ALPHONSO.
Let me in my arms receive thee,
Martyred prince—divinely grand.
ENRIQUE.
Accept my reverence—sainted brother.
Enter the KING, DON JUAN, and captives.
JUAN.
Let me kiss thy victor hand,
Brave Alphonso.
ALPHONSO.
Ah! Don Juan.
Ah! my friend, a piteous tale,
Have I learned of the Infante.
JUAN.
Till his death, I did not fail
In my attendance; till I saw him
Free beneath his native skies,
Dead or living, to be with him
I had vowed—see, there he lies.
ALPHONSO.
I must clasp thy hand, my uncle,
For although, through luckless fate,
I, to draw thee from this danger,
Came, illustrious lord, too late,
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Can true friendship be displayed;
In a sacred sovereign temple,
The grave deposit shall be made
Of thy consecrated body.
I deliver, king, to thee,
Tarudante and fair Phenix,
And I ask of you, that she
With Muléy be let to marry,—
For the friendship that I know
He did bear to the Infante.
Come, now, captives, let us go;
Look upon your prince, and bear him
On your shoulders to the fleet.
KING.
It is right they all go with him.
ALPHONSO.
To the solemn sound and sweet
Of trumpets, and the drum's low music
Let the army all attend,
Marching in the usual order
Of interment; and so end,
Humbly asking you to pardon
The great errors that it hath—
The Lusitanian Prince Fernando
Firm and Constant in the Faith.
END OF THE CONSTANT PRINCE.
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